


Raptus

by boughofawillowtree



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Rome, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Blades, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Choking, Consensual Non-Consent, Crowley is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Crowley is a Tease (Good Omens), Exhibitionism, Good Omens Kink Meme, Historical Roleplay, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kink Meme, Knifeplay, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Military, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Object Insertion, Object Penetration, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24591706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boughofawillowtree/pseuds/boughofawillowtree
Summary: Aziraphale is having a miserable time as a decanus leading a squad of ten poorly behaved Roman legionnaires at the edge of the empire. Fortunately, Crowley shows up to make some sexy mischief. When the soldiers capture Crowley, thinking he's a local Pict trying to sabotage their infrastructure project, they drag him before their commander and recommend that Aziraphale punish him sexually. Aziraphale obliges, and Crowley has a great time.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 278
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Raptus

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this Kink Meme prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2811737) with plenty of requests and input from the Kink Meme server! 
> 
> If you like my Kink Meme fills, know that while I make no promises, [I do take requests](https://desperateground.tumblr.com/ask) :)

Aziraphale had thought that a posting on the very outskirts of the Roman empire would be a quiet assignment. He was not so much inclined toward the soldierly way of life, and he had heard that the locals of these lands were rather interesting, practitioners of the arts and other refined pastimes.

Unfortunately, he quickly discovered that he had been sorely mistaken. There was absolutely nothing out here by way of cultural enjoyment - he received no welcome but suspicion and avoidance. Not to mention the weather, which was uniformly miserable.

The company of his own men was no comfort, either. They were ignorant and immature, rude to Aziraphale despite his position as their commander, and often driven by boredom into acts of baffling stupidity. He tried not to blame them - the isolation made everyone a bit tetchy - but they were just so obnoxious. 

So here he was, stuck in a cycle of boredom and nonsense, endlessly having to scold the half-men, half-children he’d been tasked with minding. It was clear by now that the Roman legion did not select its best and brightest for these types of assignments. There were plans to build some kind of wall, but for now, it was only scattered squadrons of ten men, dispatched to the outer edges to keep the borders as they were. 

Well, he was supposed to have ten men. Only recently they had been reduced to nine, after Livius was killed in an ambush by the locals. Ever since then, the rest of his men had been out for blood - Livius had been beloved, a younger brother of sorts to most of them, and vengeance was top of mind for the rest of the unit.

This combination of anger and restlessness was a terrible combination. The decanus knew it was only a matter of time before he once again had to take some new misconduct in hand.

He didn’t have to wait long. Aziraphale was just finishing his last patrol of the night, monitoring the small campsite, when a commotion erupted from the treeline.

There were four of his men, who had been out on guard, now all shouting and scuffling. In the dim light of the fire, Aziraphale could see that they were dragging a sixth figure, dressed in the garb of the local tribes.

_ Oh, just excellent,  _ Aziraphale thought bitterly. They’d no doubt caught some poor barbarian and now wanted to nail him up on a cross, which was the last thing Aziraphale wanted. They didn’t even have beams for a crucifix, so there would be all that fuss chopping down a tree; and then the unlucky man would scream and moan all night, just when Aziraphale had been looking forward to a quiet evening in his tent. And it was entirely probably that the fellow hadn’t done anything wrong in the first place.

“What is this?” Aziraphale asked, putting on his authoritative tone and turning toward the commotion.

“We found him moving the markers,” said Quintus as he yanked the man forward. Quintus was, by all accounts, the leader of the pack, the one who represented the soldiers to Aziraphale and whose model they all looked to in the field. So it figured he’d be the one to present whatever hapless local had the misfortune to stumble into this gaggle of revenge-minded boys.

In the dim light, Aziraphale couldn’t make out the prisoner’s expression, obscured as it was by shadows and the heavy plaits of red hair that fell in front of his face. Clearly, he was a Pict - if the red hair didn’t give it away, it was obvious enough from the intricate tattoos covering his skin and the woven grey cloak he wore wrapped around himself, crossed over one shoulder and knotted around his hips.

“The ones for the wall,” Manius clarified. Quintus’s best friend, Manius was as loyal as a dog and equally endowed with intellect.

Aziraphale sighed. All the infrastructure work his men had been sent to perform and protect did nothing but provoke the natives, and he wondered whether the empire would ever see the completion of its most ambitious project. 

“Did you witness him doing so?”

Oddly enough, at the sound of his voice, the captive’s head snapped up - and Aziraphale immediately recognized him. It was Crowley, because of course it was; of course his long-time friend and lover and all-around favorite pain in the ass would show up here, just when Aziraphale was losing his patience with the whole earthly existence thing.

“Oh, for Jove’s sak-” Aziraphale began, but Crowley cut him off, still in character.

“No I wasn’t,” he snarled, struggling against the tight grip that Quintus and Manius had on each of his arms. “What would I even want with your stupid rocks?”

“And see that?” Quintus said. “He speaks our language. Must be some kind of spy.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said slowly, stepping closer to face Crowley. “It is quite unusual for one of these savages to speak so clearly in our tongue.”

Crowley gave him a little sneer, as if to say  _ well how was I supposed to know that? _ Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice the blue paint striped across the demon’s eyelids, how it made his golden eyes look even wider, precious and bright.

“He’s trying to sabotage us,” Manius half-shouted.

“He’d kill us all in our beds tonight if we gave him half a chance,” Vitus continued. Vitus, a bit older than the rest of the men, was an experienced soldier with an incorrigibly violent streak. Aziraphale knew that once he lent his brutish weight to the question of Crowley’s fate, things would get murderous very quickly.

“Like they did to Livius,” Quintus finished, putting a fine and obvious point on the situation.

Aziraphale could feel the tension rising, a call for brutal field justice growing among the men. He swallowed, his eyes fixed on Crowley’s lithe form, held fast by the small but vicious throng of soldiers.

“We should nail him up,” Quintus demanded. “Send a message.”

A chorus of cheers and agreement rose from the group.

“We could, yes,” Aziraphale equivocated, “but who’s to say where he’s from? Can’t exactly send a message if none of his countrymen ever see him hung up out here.”

“So we flog him first,” Vitus said. “Night’s quiet enough, they’ll hear him.”

Aziraphale was entirely disinterested in whipping Crowley, or crucifying him, or playing any of these bloody games with the young men he was supposedly in charge of. He was about to snap his fingers to remove Crowley to his tent for a nightcap and wipe the soldiers’ memories of the whole kerfuffle, when he was halted by the presence of another miracle - Crowley’s.

In an instant, a crackle of demonic magic, and then Crowley had twisted out of the grasp of the two men. 

_ Oh thank Heavens, _ Aziraphale thought, glad that Crowley had taken it upon himself to end this whole charade.

But he didn’t disappear into the night. Oddly enough, Crowley only slipped his captors for a brief second before letting himself be snatched back up. All four men fell on him in a flurry of fists on flesh and heavy grunts of pain, and when the dust cleared, Crowley was on his knees, his hands tied tightly behind him, one of his eyebrows split and bleeding.

_ Well now, what on earth is he playing at? _

And it was that word -  _ playing -  _ that sparked a realization in Aziraphale’s mind.

He had seen Crowley like this before, hundreds of times, on his knees, bound, defiant and helpless in equal measure. 

As it turned out, the intersection of cosmic minds with earthly bodies - the depth of their selves and knowledges, combined with the nerves and sensations afforded by their earthly corporations - was positively spectacular. Add in their long-term intimacy, and a number of shared (or complementary, as it were) proclivities, and the two had passed long and lovely hours entertaining each other in flesh and spirit.

Crowley took on so well the guise of a innocent maiden, or perhaps a demonic traitor captured during the first war. And oh, how Aziraphale loved to wring those pretty cries out of him, knew just what the demon loved, and hated, and loved to hate...

But this was different, obviously! There were humans around, humans for whom this was most decidedly not a game. There would be no time for giggled plans, no reverently selected toys. 

Aziraphale set his jaw, determined not to be distracted by how gorgeous Crowley appeared in the firelight, one lip between his teeth, looking up at Aziraphale as if the angel was the center of his world.

“We can’t crucify him, we haven’t got the wood,” Aziraphale said, aware it was a flimsy excuse but wanting, despite himself, to see where things would lead.

“There’s other ways to send a message,” Vitus growled, and Aziraphale suppressed a shiver. Vitus was like a crucifix that had somehow become a man, and it disturbed him how the human relished in bringing all manner of harm and misfortune to his enemies. 

“See how they cover themselves in pretty pictures?” Quintus leaned down and ran a rough hand over Crowley’s skin, tearing the cloak off his shoulder in an obvious display of intended violence.

Closer now, Aziraphale could see that Crowley’s tattoos were all snakes, brilliantly colored and delicately drawn scales and fangs and coils. Around his neck, he wore a thick coil of blue and white beads.

“Must be a reason for that,” Quintus continued, menacing.

“Pretty little pictures,” Manius echoed, boxing the kneeling Crowley around the shoulders a bit.

“Why’s they there,” grunted Vitus, “if not for us to...enjoy?”

“Let’s teach him a lesson,” Quintus shouted in a rallying tone, “about what real soldiers do when they come across pretty little things!”

To punctuate his suggestion, he shoved Crowley forward, an offering to his commander. Crowley cried out as his bare knees scraped in the rocky dirt.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Aziraphale said, as if he were declining a decadent treat after already eating far too many.

And that would be that - sure he might look weak to the men, but this had gone far enough. He was not interested in indulging the crude appetites of these humans. It would debase his position and set a terrible example, besides.

But then: “Couldn’t you?”

Crowley’s defiant challenge startled the men into quiet. And it made Aziraphale stop and listen as well - to the tiny edge of playfulness in Crowley’s voice. The subtle upwards jump in the demon’s tone, its visual match made plain on his face in the form of one raised eyebrow.

A secret thrill ran through Aziraphale. They’d done something like this dozens of times - with the tears and the blood and the savagery of it all - and they’d done it with an audience, too; there were plenty of places where humans gathered for the theatrics of sensuality and they were always plenty of fun.

But they’d never done  _ this _ \- this was real, or at least it was supposed to be. The onlookers hungered for pain instead of pleasure, and that certainly made a big difference, didn’t it?

There was his Crowley, mouth hanging barely open, a fetching little flush on his cheeks, the taste of danger on the air, and suddenly the circumstances made Aziraphale want it all the more. It was, after all, difficult to come up with new games after so much time, and this was far out beyond the edge of all their earlier, well-scripted adventures.

“It is something, how they decorate themselves.” Aziraphale stepped forward and looked Crowley over, letting his desire show more nakedly on his face. Quintus, noticing this change in his leader’s demeanor, grinned wickedly.

Bending down, Aziraphale took Crowley’s chin in his hand. As always, Crowley managed to both tense and melt at his touch. But this time, he bared his teeth and hissed, which only made Aziraphale laugh.

“Perhaps I ought to avail myself of something pretty, tonight. You do know what the philosophers say about beauty.”

“Get your Roman hands off me,” Crowley demanded through gritted teeth.

“That’s right, I am a Roman,” Aziraphale said cooly, tightening his grip. “And that means I have dominion over these lands. Because you are, though you may be too much the fool to admit it, currently a subject of the Roman empire. And my men caught you trespassing.”

He turned Crowley’s face to the side, using far more force than necessary. There on the demon’s temple was his standard little snake, now surrounded by matching motifs that ran down his neck and over his muscle-and-sinew chest. 

“Since you speak our language, it does seem a good opportunity to send a message back for your fellows. Some...clarity about the consequences of any mischief against the rightful rulers of this place.”

At Aziraphale’s threat, shouts and laughter rose from the gathered legionnaires. Their excitement at seeing Aziraphale tip over toward violence was unsurprising, though still distasteful.

Aziraphale had seen this before, plenty of times: a mob of men (it was always men, wasn’t it), beside themselves with a thirst for a very specific type of violence. It was never about sex, and yet it somehow always ended up there - a sense, across cultures, that this was the worst violation imaginable, and therefore the ideal one to visit on one’s enemies.

He had even been there, back in Sodom, as the local men demanded their perceived rights, the privilege of debasing another, the flesh and the anguish they felt entitled to.

He shouldn’t, he scolded himself. He shouldn’t give in to this miserable little band of louts. What kind of example would it set? He was the decanus, after all. 

But there was Crowley, looking at him with those tempter’s wiles that he never could resist. And why should he? Why not indulge a private joke, at their expense? It would be the soldiers who were the true subjects of a violation; dragged in to play an unwitting role in a sport they were not privy to enjoy.

Aziraphale felt Crowley’s pulse beneath his fingertips as he held the demon’s face. Their eyes met, and in the dying light of the evening fire, clear agreement passed between them, even without words. Aziraphale smiled, Crowley surrendered, and the game was on.

“Alright, then.” Aziraphale’s voice was steady, certain, stern. Crowley’s eyes sparkled with mischievous excitement.

Some kind of order was passed between the men, and eventually poor Sabinus - skinny, frail, and always misplacing his socks - ran off, returning a few moments later breathless and with a small bottle of oil in one bony fist.

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley by the hair and yanked him to his feet, spinning him around, and pulled Crowley toward him, the demon’s slender back pressed against his front. He grabbed the demon’s braided hair in one tight fist and pulled back until Crowley’s head was against the angel’s shoulder, their cheeks touching. Given that Crowley was a good bit taller, this position forced him to widen his stance and arch his back, throwing him off balance. 

“Look at my men,” Aziraphale snarled in Crowley’s ear as the demon’s feet scrabbled in the dirt, trying to regain his footing. “See the loss they’ve suffered, of their brother. Your people killed our best soldier, Livius, in cold blood.”

“Wasn’t me,” Crowley snapped, sullen and defiant. But the fingers of his bound hands were creeping along Aziraphale’s thigh, tugging at the edge of his tunic and sliding, teasing, over the bared skin they managed to expose.

“I don’t care which one of you barbarians it was,” he growled, “you’re the one who’s going to make sure it doesn’t happen ever again.”

Crowley kicked and squirmed feebly in Aziraphale’s grasp, but bent back as he was, there was very little he could do. 

“We’re going to tear you up, we’re going to destroy you, we’re going to turn you inside out - and you’re going to head back to whatever caves your fellows live in, and you’re going to show them what we did to you. Do you understand?”

“Fuck you,” Crowley spat, engaging in another useless round of struggling.

“Yeah,” Quintus shouted, “go home and bend over, show them what happens when you fuck with us!”

“Won’t be that hard,” Manius laughed, “they all run around half-naked anyhow!”

“Maybe his pals will thank us, loosening him up for them!”

Aziraphale gave the jeering men a few moments to indulge their vicious threats, then silenced them all with a raised hand. He didn’t always have such command over the soldiers, but at this moment, he laid claim to the entirety of their attention.

Aziraphale then slid his gladius out of his belt - a small sword, about two feet long, with a wide flat blade and an ornate hilt. Crowley shivered against him at the movement.

In the firelight, the weapon glowed a dull orange. Aziraphale held it up in front of Crowley’s face, between him and the men, turning it slowly. “I do think it’s time you and your men felt the true power of Caesar’s great army.”

Aziraphale grazed the blade over Crowley’s jaw, down his exposed throat, making the demon stiffen. Then he dropped it down, touching the sharp tip to Crowley’s bare ankle, tracing a line up his calf, until the point of the blade had disappeared beneath the intricate folds of gray fabric that covered the demon’s torso and hips. 

“Slice him open!” Vitus cried, now apparently so consumed by bloodlust that he’d forgotten that an injury on the prisoner’s inner thigh, where the cold metal of the blade was currently pressed, would quickly render him far too deceased to be much fun. 

Had Vitus really been so charmed by Livius, Aziraphale wondered, that his thirst for vengeance was real? Or was he just thrilled for any excuse to play the predator?

Ignoring the soldier’s suggestion, Aziraphale instead pulled the blade away from Crowley’s body, slicing through his clothing and letting the garment hang in tatters, exposing the flat plane of the demon’s stomach, the gorgeous effort hanging between his legs. It was lovely, a delicate weave of woolen gray cording, and Aziraphale made a mental note to gather it up and repair it later.

“Hey!” Crowley redoubled his attempts to get free, twisting and thrashing in Aziraphale’s grip, but the angel held him tight against his chest. He held the sword’s flat side against Crowley’s belly, pinning the demon between sharp steel and the leather of Aziraphale’s uniform. 

Once Crowley had stilled, Aziraphale lifted the sword and brought it down, hard, smacking against Crowley’s flesh, the sound of the impact ringing out into the night. All the insects and other creatures that had been singing their nightly chorus stopped, and for a moment the strange gathering of men and man-shaped beings held their breath, their souls all hanging together in a thick silence. 

Then Aziraphale hit Crowley again, this time on his upper thighs, making the demon shout in pain. In the newly subdued quiet of the night, the sound was even louder, a hard crack of steel on skin, followed immediately by Crowley’s cry.

He hit Crowley a few more times, letting the crescendo rise - his soldiers hooting and hollering, Crowley wailing, the crisp sound of each blow.

Then he held the sword out to one side, tilting it back and forth as if considering something. Aziraphale tossed the gladius up into the air, giving it enough of a twirl that it turned over and he caught it this time by the blade (having performed a quick miracle to render its edge now blunt and harmless).

“Sabinus, if you wouldn’t mind,” Aziraphale said, keeping his tone smooth and low as he held the weapon out toward the young man, hilt-first.

Sabinus looked dumbly at the gladius for a moment. Manius, quicker to grasp Aziraphale’s intent, snatched the bottle of oil from the younger man, uncorked it, and poured it over the hilt with a wicked smirk.

Crowley, also seeing where this was going, redoubled his efforts to escape Aziraphale’s grip, kicking up clouds of dust under his heels. “No - no, no, no, come on, don’t -”

“Hush,” Aziraphale ordered, drawing the sword back, then pressing the now greased-up pommel between Crowley’s legs, right against his opening.

Secretly, he lifted a finger from the slick gladius and ran the pad of it over Crowley’s hole. Soft and yielding, as always. Then he pressed the cold metal against Crowley’s flesh, making the demon squeal. Crowley tried to lift himself up and away from the intrusion, pushing up onto his tiptoes, but Aziraphale held him fast. 

“We are the representatives of Caesar's army,” Aziraphale said, forcing the sword up, up, inside Crowley, as the demon whined and kicked. “You will learn to respect us. You will know our might.” Another hard shove, making Crowley cry out and eliciting a cheer from the onlookers. “You will know our weapons.” A twist, a scream, a satisfied murmur. “You will know our  _ hardness. _ ”

Crowley was panting now, his body heaving, shoulders rolling back and forth against Aziraphale’s chest as he struggled. Aziraphale knew the sword hilt must hurt, with its wide girth and sharp ridges. But he had not missed the subtle shift as Crowley made himself just a bit more ready, and he knew he was not doing any true damage to his beloved.

His soldiers, on the other hand, understood nothing of the sort, and were nearly frantic with celebration, believing their rather soft decanus to now be engaging in unprecedented cruelty.

“Please,” Crowley gasped, his hands now fisted tightly in Aziraphale’s tunic. The angel could hear the beginnings of tears in Crowley’s wobbly voice. He always was such a patron of drama.

“Feel that? Rome has the best craftsmen in the world,” Aziraphale cooed as he thrust the sword hilt in and out, making Crowley’s lithe body jerk with the movement. “I want you to learn every inch - take this back with you, tell your little painted friends what we will wield against them if they try anything.”

Aziraphale gave the sword a rough twist and Crowley screamed, his feet nearly off the ground in an attempt to escape. The angel only kept up his punishing rhythm, drawing out louder and more pathetic cries with each movement.

“That’s one way to polish your sword,” Quintus joked. “Hey, Sabinus, yours been looking pretty dull lately - ought to give that a try.” He punched the scrawnier man in the arm, and Sabinus took a step backwards, eyes glued to the scene unfolding before him. 

Aziraphale tugged the sword free and held it out, letting it glisten in the firelight. The oil coating the hilt was streaked with blood (a nice touch on Crowley’s part), and as he raised it for his men to see, they laughed and jeered. Then he brought it to Crowley’s face and traced it down his cheek, leaving a trail of pink-tinged oil on the demon’s pale skin.

“Make him clean it,” Manius called.

Aziraphale slid the bulb of the hilt over Crowley’s lips. The demon pressed them tightly together, trying to turn his head away. 

“Open your mouth,” Aziraphale ordered.

Crowley only grunted in refusal, clenching his jaw.

“Is it still not clear who has dominion here? You do not say no to me.”

Crowley shook his head defiantly, as much as he could with Aziraphale still holding him by the hair and now shoving the gladius against his face.

Aziraphale tried to force it one more time, but he didn’t have enough leverage from that position. Rather than continue the very undignified contest, he withdrew the sword and threw Crowley to the ground, following soon after, crouching beside Crowley’s bound, now almost entirely naked body.

Aziraphale slammed his gladius into the ground, near enough to Crowley’s head to make the demon flinch. It stood up about a foot from the ground, its tip firmly planted in the soil. Aziraphale grabbed Crowley by the back of his neck and yanked the demon up onto his knees before bending him over the sword like a supplicant kneeling to kiss the feet of some holy con man. 

Crowley whined and mewled, tried to shuffle away on his knees, but there was nowhere to go. Aziraphale gave himself a moment to appreciate the glory of the figure before him: Crowley, on his knees, helpless under the angel’s hands. Aziraphale saw him here in profile, his sharp nose and strong jaw silhouetted by the firelight. His back was a perfect curve, sinuous and serpentine, ribs heaving with breath.

“You will submit,” Aziraphale growled. Like this, he could apply enough pressure to pry open Crowley’s stubborn mouth and lower the demon down, forcing him to take the sword’s hilt into his throat. 

Crowley gagged around the gladius, his squeals muffled as he twisted his bound wrists and kicked his feet in the dirt. Aziraphale held him there for a moment, watching as the knot in Crowley’s throat bobbed in vain.

Then he pulled Crowley free with a wet sucking sound, letting him catch his breath for a moment.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked, looking up at the gathered throng of men. “What do you lot think - has he got it clean enough? Would it pass inspection?”

The legionnaires responded with a taunting chorus of ‘no’s, and someone even kicked up a cloud of dust in the direction of the spit-slick sword. 

“You’ll have to do better, then.” Aziraphale let his tone take on some of the sadistic glee radiating out from the soldiers. When he brought Crowley down again, the demon didn’t fight this time, but took the sword’s hilt into his mouth. 

“We do have high standards,” Aziraphale teased, forcing Crowley’s head up and down. “You filthy forest men will have to learn what it means to live under Roman rule.” Crowley could only make indignant choking noises as Aziraphale continued his rough treatment. 

Then, apparently not satisfied with only this degradation, the soldiers - led by Vitus - started calling for Aziraphale to  _ whip him, beat him, flay him. _

Someone tossed a leather strap, torn from Sabinus’s uniform, toward Aziraphale. He snatched it off the ground and held it up, to raucous cheers. With Crowley’s hands behind his back and hunched over the gladius like this, the best target was the demon’s shoulders, a taut expanse of freckled skin, covered with tattoos and a few of his long red braids.

Aziraphale brought the strap down over Crowley’s shoulders. The demon groaned around the sword pommel in his mouth. Again, Azirpahale hit him, and again, the whip-crack of leather on flesh drowning out Crowley’s muffled protests. He squirmed, scraping his knees in the dirt, his bound hands flexing and twisting.

Finally, Aziraphale let go, allowing Crowley to sit up and catch his breath. He looked up at Aziraphale, eyes ablaze, his chin shiny with spit. 

“Think he’s learned his lesson?” Aziraphale looked up at his handful of soldiers. “Think he’s done in well enough to send back to his countrymen?”

Crowley nodded frantically, desperately. “Yes, please, let me go, I’ll - I’ll tell them, I’ll tell everybody -”

Aziraphale silenced Crowley with a hard smack to his face, knocking the demon onto his side. “I wasn’t asking you.”

Crowley glared up at him, his face now streaked with blood, spit, tears, and dirt. Oh but he was beautiful, surrendered to his own wildness like this. Aziraphale loved the image so much he indulged in another slap, the other cheek this time, eliciting a yelp from Crowley. 

The soldiers were roaring now, insisting that no, more must be done; a pack of hounds baying for more cruelty and humiliation to be rained down onto their hapless quarry.

Crowley was shuffling away from Aziraphale, his motions not unlike those of a snake.

“Come here,” Aziraphale commanded, grabbing Crowley’s arm and dragging him back toward the gladius still standing in the earth. Crowley kicked and twisted, but Aziraphale stilled him with another hard blow to the face.

“Be still,” Aziraphale said, pressing a knee into Crowley’s back and moving to untie his hands. “I’d hate for you to end up in the hands of my men.”

At the threat, Crowley went limp, whimpering and sniffling into the dust. Aziraphale freed his hands, then yanked them up above Crowley’s head, tying them together again and hitching them to the sword as if Crowley was a particularly stubborn tent in need of a firm staking.

Aziraphale leaned back to admire Crowley’s prone form, now almost entirely nude, bordered by the tattered remains of his clothing, the bright blue beads of his necklace shining in the moonlight. Around him, the mockery of an angel’s shape, mismatched ‘wings’ scratched in the dirt where Crowley had moved. 

“Now, then.” Aziraphale straddled Crowley as he undid the buckles on his own uniform, his intentions viciously clear.

“No, no, please,” Crowley cried. “Please, don’t, you already -”

Aziraphale took hold of the coil of beads that hung around Crowley’s neck and wrapped it around his fist, yanking tightly enough to silence Crowley’s pleas. The demon made strangled noises, his hands straining against the bonds.

He was already hard as a rock, and he took no time entering Crowley, a satisfied moan escaping his lips as he buried himself in the demon’s soft, quivering body. When he picked up a rhythm, he tugged on the necklace with each thrust, forcing out choked little noises from Crowley. 

Aziraphale leaned forward, one hand resting on the sword hilt for balance, the other still pulling the beads tight around Crowley’s throat. He closed his eyes, head tilted back, drinking it all in - not only his total control over Crowley, but the secret power he held over the men who looked on, thinking they had pushed him to this, believing that it was their demand being met, oblivious to the fact that they were mere pawns, toys for Crowley and Aziraphale to toss into their lovemaking as it suited them.

Having lost himself in the passion, Aziraphale forgot his own strength for a moment. The cord strung with beads snapped, sending blue glass beads scattering into the dirt. Crowley coughed and gasped. Some of the legionnaires bent down and grabbed at the beads, grotesque souvenirs they would no doubt prize.

Aziraphale let go of the sword and brought his body lower, covering Crowley, burying his face in the demon’s neck. He rocked into him, well-practiced motions, two bodies delighting in their joining. Crowley began to moan with something that sounded suspiciously like pleasure. Aziraphale let himself revel in the sound for a moment, then sank his teeth into the warm flesh of Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley went from pleasured moans to pained wails in an instant. Aziraphale ground his teeth in, knowing already what the bruise would look like the next morning, blooming purple like a ripened plum. 

As he approached climax, Aziraphale’s sense of adoring domination was only amplified by the shouts of the onlookers. The knowledge that he had an audience, his control over every aspect of the illusion, the gravitas afforded to his playacting by their foolishness - it was exquisite, and added something extra and delicious that they’d never had an opportunity to explore before.

Confident that he wouldn’t be heard over Crowley’s keening and the soldiers' clamor, Aziraphale put his lips against the shell of Crowley’s ear and whispered “ _ Let’s give them a real show, darling. _ ”

Crowley took the direction and fell into it, becoming even more entirely the ravished victim, screaming out wordless pleas while Aziraphale threw his head back and surrendered to his orgasm, yanking the gladius out of the ground as he did so and holding it above him triumphantly.

Rather than savor his orgasm as he typically preferred, collapsing into a languorous afterglow, Aziraphale continued riding the cresting wave of his own dominance. He pulled out of Crowley swiftly and sat up, letting Crowley curl defensively like a wounded animal. His arms now partly freed, Crowley wrapped them around his head, cowering beneath Aziraphale. 

“Well then, men?” Aziraphale grabbed one of Crowley’s ankles and tugged his leg straight, shoving his thighs apart and revealing the mess between his legs to the small crowd which pressed in above them. “Think it’s a clear enough message to send him home with?” Aziraphale spread Crowley’s ass with his fingers, exposing him even further and making him whimper in shame.

The men, of course, demanded more, more, more indignities be visited upon Crowley, voices crashing over each other as they echoed each other’s increasingly vicious cries.

“And what about you?” Aziraphale roughly rolled Crowley onto his back. “Ready to run home and show your fellows what happens when you cross the defenders of Rome?”

The demon looked up at him with amber eyes, pupils blown wide in an excellent facsimile of terror. Scrapes and cuts from the rough ground he’d been fucked against covered his chest and stomach, and even his hard cock was striped with abrasions.

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry, please - just let me go,” he begged.

“Oh, but what is this?” Aziraphale reached down and touched the dirt, where a wet spot of come darkened it. “It seems that despite all his whinging, our little Pict  _ liked _ it.”

The soldiers seemed to find this absolutely hysterical.

Aziraphale held up his fingers, rubbing the sticky mud between them. “Perhaps he hasn’t learned the correct lesson at all.”

“No - no, please, I didn’t,” Crowley babbled. “I won’t - I’ve learned, I have, I’m sorry, I’ll tell them, I’ll tell everyone -”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said cooly, “you will.” He rested his soiled fingers gently on Crowley’s face, stroking a dark line down his jaw, his cheek, his lips. Crowley shut his eyes and tried to turn away from the debasement, but Aziraphale only chuckled.

Then Aziraphale dragged his nails down Crowley’s chest, over the fresh pink lines where stones had broken skin. Crowley hissed and shrieked in pain, his eyes still closed, trembling under Aziraphale’s touch.

When Aziraphale reached his twice-sensitized cock and wrapped a tight fist around it, Crowley’s eyes flew open. “No more, please, I can’t, please just stop, please, it hurts, no more,” he pleaded until he was reduced only to ragged sobs as Aziraphale began twisting and tugging.

“At least these wild men have a word for please,” Aziraphale taunted as Crowley writhed. “But I haven’t heard a thank you.”

Crowley looked at him in confused fury. Aziraphale nodded his head toward the legionnaires in a commanding gesture. “Look at my men.  _ Look at them _ ,” he repeated, and Crowley meekly turned his head toward the throng of soldiers.

“My soldiers,” Aziraphale continued, still mercilessly working Crowley’s cock, “who were kind enough to bring you here, for you to have such fun, and learn so much. Tell them thank you.”

Crowley opened his mouth, but nothing came out but a dry little gasp.

“Thank them,” Aziraphale ordered, using every trick he’d learned over the millennia to force Crowley toward another orgasm.

“Thank you,” Crowley said, his voice thin and shaky. 

“Again. Louder.”

“Thank you,” Crowley said, “thank you, thank you, thankyouthankyou _ thankyou _ ,” his words melting together into desperate chant as he reached the peak, his body going taut, his belly splattered with come.

Aziraphale grinned wolfishly and finally released Crowley’s cock, letting the demon lay panting on the ground. He rubbed the fresh semen over Crowley’s abs and chest, feeling the demon tremble under his splayed palm.

With a satisfied sigh, Aziraphale leaned back on his heels and began to set himself to rights.

Quintus stepped forward, expectant, hands already on his own buckles, but Aziraphale was not about to hand Crowley over to the mob. No, they had gotten their little dose of theatre, and they would have to be satisfied.

“Come on,” Aziraphale said, standing and hauling a shaky-kneed Crowley to his feet along with him. “It’s too dark to let him go now, he’ll hide out long enough that we’ll have no witnesses to our handiwork. I’ll have him in my tent tonight, and we’ll toss him back to his tribesmen in the morning.”

Disappointment rippled through the assembled men, both at the conclusion of the event and at the realization that they would not be getting their own turns. But after the uncharacteristic display of brutality they’d just witnessed, not a single one challenged Aziraphale. They all turned, grumbling, toward their beds. 

***

As soon as they entered Aziraphale’s tent, he covered it in a sound-proofing miracle. Which was just as well, since Crowley immediately fell against him, giggling like a drunkard.

“You’re a terror, angel.”

“Oh, please.” Aziraphale uncoiled the rope from around Crowley’s wrists and guided the demon gently to his bed, which had nearly doubled in size once Aziraphale arrived with his guest. “What were you thinking, running into a bunch of legionnaires like that?”

“I was thinking that I’d like your cock up my ass,” Crowley slurred. 

Aziraphale only clucked at him and lowered his battered body onto the bed. “And did you enjoy yourself, dear?”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a doe-eyed pout and licked his lips. “What if I didn’t? You got more where that came from?”

“Really, Crowley, you’re insatiable.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes and began to remove his uniform. “And ridiculous. You’re positively wrung out, as am I. We’re done for the night.”

“Whatever you say,” Crowley crooned, reaching one long, dust-covered arm out toward Aziraphale. “You’re the boss.”

“Yes, and you love it.” Aziraphale finished undressing and joined Crowley in bed. “You’re absolutely filthy, dear.”

“Your fault,” Crowley giggled.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and a warm, wet cloth appeared in his hand. He began to rub his demon down, removing the sweat and dirt and come and blood and revealing the creamy skin, the labyrinth of snake tattoos. Crowley lay back in total bliss, murmuring happy little noises and luxuriating in the tender care.

When he was finished, he tossed the cloth aside and gathered a now very clean and very sleepy Crowley into his arms. He felt the raised welts from the leather strap, the rough lines of scratches on his skin. “Shall I heal you up, then?”

“Nuh uh.” Crowley nearly burrowed into Aziraphale’s embrace.

“You absolute glutton.” Aziraphale kissed the top of Crowley’s head. “That was quite a lot of fun.”

“You broke my necklace,” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s chest.

“Shall I get you a new one?”

“Mmmm.” Crowley didn’t seem too concerned about the state of his jewelry, though Aziraphale did remember his previous resolution to rescue the woven garment Crowley had arrived with. After a second of angelic concentration, it found its way onto the small table in Aziraphale’s tent, fully mended and neatly folded.

After a bit of snuggling, Crowley’s steady breathing told Aziraphale he had fallen asleep. Aziraphale turned out the lamps with a thought and closed his eyes, quite content to spend a night holding Crowley and thinking back on the joys they had just shared. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Pretty Little Pictures](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24595861) by [childrenofthesun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/childrenofthesun/pseuds/childrenofthesun)




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